


Wolf Tails

by koldtblod



Category: Young Dracula
Genre: F/M, Gen, Other, Season/Series 03, Snippets, Wolfie is adorable!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koldtblod/pseuds/koldtblod
Summary: Being so small, Wolfie always manages to get himself into the tightest, sometimes most unthinkable of places, and sometimes, he overhears things that he really shouldn't ought to... Five snippets of stories that Wolfie has overheard!





	1. Magda’s Deceit

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whole thing about five years ago and rediscovered it only recently! It's set during Season Three, and after a quick revamp I decided that it was fit enough to be released into the world again.

   The time that he went foraging through the house for something to eat, and ended up in his mother’s gloomy study… Wolfie had never expected, half way through his investigation, to hear her voice and heels heading swiftly down the corridor, directly towards him.

   “– have it all perfectly planned out, just wait!”

   Wolfie had frozen behind the desk from where he had been searching through one of the drawers. His first initial feeling was fear – his mother would surely have his guts for garters if she found him in here. The second, perhaps more sensibly, was instinct. Quickly, but quietly as he could, he closed the drawer, abandoning his search for titbits and pressed himself up against the back of the desk. He tried to hold his breath to stop it from quivering in anticipation, not daring to think about what the consequences of being found may be. His mother had a terrible rage at times.

   “Picture this,” Magda was saying, her voice following her as she paced around her study. “I turn up on their doorstep, piteous as you like, clothed in the gutter’s finery to convince them that such a lonesome old vampire as myself ought not to stay on her own - it’s very dangerous, afterall. _V_ _oilà_ , just like that. Vlad only needs a little talking to, he’s always been far too naïve to figure me out… Then there’s my _darling_ husband. The Count will fall inexplicitly in love with me again and – oh, _now_ , Patrick, _don_ _’_ _t_ look at me like that.”

   Wolfie was vaguely aware that he was frowning. He had simply no idea who this ‘Count’ was, nor why his mother might be talking about swanning off with him so openly in front of his father. If there was one thing that was for sure, his mother was very much _in love with_ Patrick (as she put it), and so there seemed to be no logical reason in her wanting someone else to fall for her. And she was certainly not a ‘lonesome old vampire’!

   His father’s voice was grating the air now, further away than Magda’s, as if he were standing much closer to the door than she.

   “You know it’s for our own good,” was Magda’s reply. “I will become Vlad’s regent, thereby having complete control over him. And in turn, his father. They will be but… puppets on a string to me!”

   By this time, her voice had grown ever closer, almost hovering right above the small boy as he crouched in his not-so-ideal hiding place. She was standing on the other side of the desk now, stationary, Wolfie was sure. He dared not look. Her sharp nails scraping against the wood at his father’s next enquiry was confirmation enough for Wolfie.

   “What about Ingrid?”

   “ _Ah_.” Wolfie could imagine his mother waving her hand dismissively as she said this. “Well, she’ll be no trouble. She was always so eager to get rid of them herself, I doubt her feelings will have changed that much...”

   There was a brief pause. Wolfie occupied himself suitable with trying not to breathe too loudly.

   “Anyway,” Magda continued, “why are you so worried?” Her voice then took on one of its more soppy, endearing tones. “Patrick, you know – you _know –_ that I would never leave you.”

   From the werewolf came a low, almost satisfied growl, and there was the sound of heavy boots crossing the carpeted floor. Within seconds, he had reached the other side of the room and there was a loud thud and a playful screech from Magda as she was pitched backwards onto the table. Wolfie had gasped in sheer surprise at this, as a long lock of her hair swung over the edge and hung there, but the noise was thankfully missed by his parents. They were far too busy. Papers fluttered up from the desk, a cylinder tube holding quills was knocked onto its side, sending them spilling across the table and to the floor. Wolfie had frozen again, still pressed tightly against the desk… As long as neither of them glanced over the edge, everything would be fine.

   Magda was giggling madly. “Get off, get off!” her voice chastised, though it was full of laughter. There was another brief scuffling as Patrick refused to let her up for a moment, but after a few seconds, they both calmed themselves and the lock of her hair slithered back over the edge of the table as Magda was allowed to sit back up. “There’s no resisting you, is there!”

   The next thing that Wolfie heard he didn’t quite grasp the meaning of – indeed, he wouldn’t, until he was much older and had learnt entirely about ‘the birds and the bees’. His father seemed to rasp the words, as if menacing, and Magda gave a soft purr of appreciation.

   “Now, behave.” she told him sternly. “Leave me, I need to pack.”

   And so, she began. Wolfie remained crouched behind the desk, biting his lip, his small freckled face still a portrait of his anxiety. He was alone with his mother. Trapped in a room that he wasn’t allowed in with his mother. He could hear her shifting around the study, from her lips coming a soft humming melody, as if the coming together of her plan — whatever it was — put her in fine spirits. Of this, Wolfie wondered, despite his apprehension. Who were the people that she had spoke of, who were Vlad and Ingrid? Were they relatives?

   It was an unfortunate time that Wolfie picked, when eventually he poked his head around the side of the desk. His mother had just left the room, closing the door for the time behind her. If it had been open, Wolfie would have known, would have realised that she hadn’t gone far – in fact, just to the end of the corridor, to help herself to a glass of King Michael II (Transylvanian batch, 1601) – and was due to waltz back into the room again at any moment. Thinking his chance had come, and eager to escape the study in which he had been enclosed for the last half an hour, the boy took his chance. He crawled out from behind the desk, staggering to his feet and making a clumsy rush for the door. His hand had closed on the doorknob, he had started to turn it, but from the other side the doorknob was being turned, too, by another force. Wolfie realised this only too late. Before he knew it, the door handle had been wrenched from his grasp. He was staring up at the slender silhouette of his mother.

   The lazy-eyed contented look that she had previously been wearing vanished within an instant. Her grip on the crystal glass in her hand tightened considerably as she fixed her gaze on her small son, her mouth twisting with anger. Wolfie seemed to cower as she stared down upon him. There would be hell to pay now, he knew that for sure.

*

   The next day, the poor boy found himself dejectedly packing up his belongings. After being dragged by the earlobe down several flights of stairs and through to the kitchen, and following a heated argument between his parents over who was to blame for his “running wild”, he had had his ears thoroughly boxed by his mother and then was sent away in shame. He had sat for an hour hunched at the end of his bed, feeling quite sorry for himself, and looking every bit as wretched as a shunned puppy.

   Later that evening, he had heard them talking again: the topic of what to do with him.

   As a punishment, it was decided on eventually that he should accompany his mother on her _little journey_. Magda had been far less than pleased to find him skulking around in her study, and her rage had turned into a cold fury when she finally forced out of him just how long he had been there. With the intentions of her ingenious plan no longer a secret, she demanded it. Drag him along. Show him what the real world is like. Wolfie didn’t mind that too much; he was pitying more the fact that his mother had now turned a very cold shoulder to him, as was her way whenever he had misbehaved.

   All the same, he couldn’t help but feel a small tingle of childish excitement – afterall, he _was_ travelling to a different part of the country. And after they had arrived, his mother had never _meant_ to leave him behind when she flitted off in another bout of rage…

   Of course, Wolfie had no way of knowing that within a week, he would find his new life with the mysterious ‘Count’ very agreeable indeed. For the time, however, he vowed to himself: he would never go poking around in the house again.


	2. The Vampire’s Assistant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still a sucker for Season Three VladxErin tbh.

   The time he had spent the day following Zoltan sneakily around the house, spying on him, which he had thought was the most tremendous fun, and ended winding up in Vlad’s room.

   He had been wriggling underneath the chaise lounge, slowly advancing on the stuffed hound who was quite blissfully unaware of his presence in the room. In fact, he had been blissfully unaware all day. Wolfie had tailed him closely since just after breakfast, and taking down notes in a little notepad which he had labelled _In_ _vestigations._ It was the best game, pretending to be a secret agent. Wolfie hadn’t expected to see Vlad’s feet enter the room, though, nor the rest of him for that matter - he had thought that he was busy with trying to open the Praedictum Impaver, and wouldn’t be back until much later.

   “Ah, Master Vlad.”

   “I need your help, Zoltan.”

   Wolfie’s ears pricked up, listening intently, his pen raised in preparation. He didn’t fear Vladimir Dracula, as such, for he wasn’t as bad tempered as his mother and Wolfie was sure that any consequences of being found wouldn’t be as serious as Magda’s. Even so, he was quite keen to stay hidden – afterall, he _was_ a special agent.

   “How can I be of assistance?”

   There was a pause; Vlad seemed to be gathering his confidence, and Wolfie could see it as he peered out from beneath the chair. Though it was quite dark in the room, the few lit candles scattered here and there cast a soft, flickering glow over the youngest Dracula’s face.

   “I’ve got a date,” he confessed at last, “with Erin.”

   Wolfie started scribbling in his notepad intensely in his cursive, childish scrawl. _Suspicious outing_ , he wrote, _with Erin._ Vlad had coloured slightly, moving off with an awkward grin in the direction of his wardrobe. Zoltan was chuckling to himself.

   “I suppose you’ll be wanting my input on clothing choice, then.”

   “Something like that.”

   He was reaching into his wardrobe as he spoke, and emerged after a moment with a vivid blue and white chequered shirt. He eyed it, biting his lip unsurely, before then making a disdainful noise and shaking his head, chucked it aside.

   “Too bright,” he declared.

   And it went on like this – Vlad digging through the entirety of his wardrobe, only to throw the clothes he didn’t want haphazardly onto a pile on the floor, whilst Zoltan tried to voice his opinion rather unsuccessfully. Vlad was too quick to make up his own decisions, despite asking the hound for help. After a good ten minutes, and looking slightly moody, Vlad gave a frustrated huff, kicking absently at the pile of clothes and slumping into one of his armchairs.

   “It’s no good,” he insisted, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. “I have nothing that’s… suitable!”

   Zoltan sighed heavily. He had been standing in front of the chaise lounge under which Wolfie was still lying flat on his stomach, but crossed the room until he reached the youngest Dracula, resting his head on his lap like the faithful hound he was supposed to be.

   Wolfie, however, was not so down-heartened. He had now accumulated quite a long list of everything that was in Vlad’s wardrobe, and thus considered himself quite a successful agent: there were shirts, plain and chequered and striped, dozens of jeans, a slightly crumpled black suit with a stiff collar and matching tie, several pairs of black trousers, a small number of cardigans, a jumper or two, a cotton scarf still with the price tag attached. Still hanging up inside the wardrobe, he could see, was a glossy black cape, lined with silk on the inside. He wondered why Vlad didn’t want to wear that; _he_ thought that it would be quite fun, flitting around in a cape all night, just like the Count.

   “I don’t know why you don’t wear something normal,” Zoltan said, dragging Wolfie’s gaze back up from his list of Vlad’s clothes.

   It was Vlad’s turn to sigh. “Because – ” he started, then stopped himself. “Never mind.”

   Zoltan tilted his head up to look at him. Wolfie’s pen was poised in readiness.

   “I sort of want to impress her, I don’t know.” Vlad bit his lip again, shifting uncomfortable. He directed his gaze anywhere but at the hound who began to chuckle once more, wheeling himself away back towards the clothing pile.

   “You just haven’t looked hard enough, Master Vlad.”

   It was only now that Vlad looked up again. If it were possible for him, Wolfie thought, his half-brother would surely have been blushing. Personally, he didn’t understand why _girls_ were such a touchy subject anyway; in fact, come to think of it, Wolfie didn’t understand why they were even so fascinating to the opposite sex at all. In his experience, girls of a similar age to him were far too concerned with beheading their toy dolls after giving them makeovers with felt-tip pens, and held no interest whatsoever in detective games. Wolfie had therefore decided, upon his first encounter with one, that girls were definitely very boring and conclusively didn’t see why girls of a similar age to Vlad should be any different…

   “What time is your date, Master Vlad?”

   Vlad had not moved for a minute and Zoltan, asking this, seemed to be slyly urging him along. He stared back at the vampire until finally Vlad grimaced and pulled himself up again.

   “I have an hour.”

   One hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. Despite his previously pessimistic attitude, it was clear to see Vlad’s mood slowly improving again as the time ticked away.   This was honestly down to Zoltan, who actually proved to be quite a help to the vampire as he proceeded to wade through his clothes once more. Some items of clothing — or, more specifically, the pieces that were still loitering from his younger years, when he had first moved to Britain — were immediately crossed off the list after receiving a disapproving look. Vlad had only looked slightly offended at the first couple of these (a faded pale blue t-shirt and denim jeans that were too short, with a rip at the knee), but soon he accepted the fate of the clothes and moved swiftly onwards. By the time he had reached a grey and red bowling jacket, he was nothing short of dancing around the room, quite excited again.

Zoltan had to bring him down though. Vlad flashed a grin in his direction, giving him a slightly awkward thumbs up; it was all Wolfie could do himself but to stop from cringing as he watched. Zoltan grimaced, too, and Vlad’s face fell.

   “Another no, then?” He looked slightly disappointed, as he shrugged the jacket off his shoulders again. “I like that jacket…”

   “It’s your shirt,” Zoltan declared.

   Vlad’s eyes instantly darted down. Wolfie had seen him wearing it quite a handful of times before: it was a dark blue item with silver buttons, which Vlad seemed to pair up with almost everything imaginable. Apart from his cape. Wolfie had never seen him wearing his cape at all.

   “What then?”

   Having offended its owner, the shirt was being pulled off roughly. Wolfie made sure he noted down the exact way that the buttons shimmered in the candlelight as it was tossed to the ground and landed but a few feet in front of him – more ‘evidence’, although for what hideous crime he was quite unsure. Vlad had returned to rummaging through the rest of the clothes.

   “Do you have red?” Zoltan suggested. “Your father suits red.”

   The vampire cast a bemused look over his shoulder. “Don’t compare me to – ” But he stopped mid-sentence, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully and teeth coming back to bite his lip. “Wait,” he said, straightening up. “I’ll be right back.”

   With his sudden epiphany, he hurried out of the room, still quite shirtless. Zoltan was left staring at the space where Vladimir Dracula _had_ just been, and Wolfie narrowed his eyes and turned his pen back to his paper.

   They weren’t kept waiting for long.

   When Vlad returned he was carrying in his hands a dusty brown cardboard box – flat, like the kind Wolfie had seen his father’s suits come in.

   “Robin got me this,” he said, his voice thick as he placed it on the coffee table and flipped open the lid. “He said it would look _nifty_ against a black cloak, when I was out at night _flapping around_.”

   Wolfie didn’t miss the slightly bitter note of resentment in his voice.

   Slowly, Vlad dipped his hands into the box. Grasping the shoulders, he pulled out a dark shirt of crimson red, black buttoned, crease free and brand new. As he did so, a small gift tag fluttered out of the folds of material and to the floor. Wolfie could read it, upside down:

> _Happy birthday, Vlad.  
>  Mam said you_ _’_ _d look smart in a shirt. I would have bought the book you wanted instead, otherwise, but_ _…_ _I picked the colour anyway!  
>  _ _Robin_

   It was the writing of an adolescent, a slightly scruffy joined-up scrawl. Wolfie was intrigued, and he grew more and more so as he stared at it. He felt his hand, numb from cramp, reaching out as if to snatch it back for himself, before Zoltan’s voice brought him to his senses.

   “It wasn’t his fault, you know.”

   Vlad looked at the wolf for a moment, not speaking, the shirt still held out like a flag.

   “I know,” he said eventually. “I don’t blame him.”

   For a second the air remained quite still, silent, and Wolfie found himself not daring to breath again, pressing himself into the carpet of the floor. The tension was lifted as Vlad’s face broke into a gradual smile again, and he raised the shirt over his head.

   “I’ve never worn it,” he said, altogether more cheerfully.

   “A much improvement, Master Vlad,” Zoltan agreed.

   Vlad gave a small grin and an uncertain little shrug, smoothing the shirt down at the front. Wolfie wondered vaguely what it must be like not to have a reflection…

   “I have,” said Vlad, moving back to the pile of clothes again, “a black jacket somewhere. It’s leather.”

   Zoltan _hmmed_ , as Vlad pulled the specified item out by the collar.

   “I think Robin would be proud of me,” he said.

   Wolfie, of course, was still no closer to deciphering who Robin was; he immediately pictured Ingrid, however, in a suit and a bowler hat as if to make her look more manly, because the jacket that Vlad was now pulling his arms into reminded him very much of something that his sister would wear. All the fastenings were silver, and the front bore a number of spiked studs at the lapel.

   Vlad looked almost nervous as he glanced up at Zoltan for approval. The hound, however, was this time more than happy to commend his dress sense.

   “Wicked,” he declared, at which Vlad let out a brusque laugh.

   He reached forward to ruffle his fur jokingly. “Thanks, Zoltan.” He checked his watch.

   Wolfie didn’t need any indication to realise that he’d been jammed under the chair for quite a while; his legs were slightly stiff, his stomach was starting to hurt too from lying there for so long. On limited time, Vlad was running his hands blindly through his own hair.

   “How do I look?” he asked.

   “You shine up like a new penny.”

   Vlad grinned again. Crossing the room in a few strides, his feet came dangerously close to Wolfie’s face as he reached for some unidentified object that was lying on the lounge. The boy waited, watching with wide eyes, for the feet to move away again – but only in vain. Vlad had stopped at the soft crunch of paper beneath his feet, and as he bending down to retrieve it Wolfie once more felt compelled to hold his breath. He watched as the fingers closed on the paper, then withdrew again after seconds and the feet slowly started to move away.

   “I hope you enjoy yourself, now, Master Vlad.”

   “Yeah,” he nodded, distracted. Vlad had turned over the paper, had been about to screw it up before he had caught sight of the writing. Wolfie watched as his eyes moved over it, taking in the words, the memories. He cleared his throat, then trying to tuck it nonchalantly into his back pocket as he looked up again at Zoltan. “Yeah,” he repeated, focused now, with a smile. “I’ll see you later.”

   Even as he left the room, Wolfie saw that he pulled the gift tag out again to slip it into his wallet. He meant to keep it, and Wolfie knew that much if nothing else. The boy’s notebook by now was a scribble of partially unintelligible words – and of course, this little additional thought was added to it immediately. Jumbled together, the explanations and notes would in the future make sense only to him.

   He didn’t have to wait long to escape from under the chair, though.

   Zoltan had busied himself with snooting with his nose through the remainder of the clothes on the floor, with Vlad gone, but must of them now were either flung over the side of chairs or thrown carelessly back into the wardrobe, and so soon he grew bored of it. Wolfie had already decided that he would resume to follow the hound. As soon as the last of his tail had disappeared through the door, Wolfie was dragging himself out from under the chair, pen and notepad between his teeth.

   Whether the family liked it or not, the boy would continue to follow them around in secret for the best part of the next week. His findings, trivial as well as complete euphemised nonsense, had no clear link but all the same; as he crawled with mounting excitement after Zoltan, passing snippets of conversation on the way, Wolfie couldn’t help but think, being a detective was brilliant fun!


	3. Vicious Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written, maybe obviously, during a rough time of my life. Kinda 'trigger warning', I guess.

   The time he had returned to his guard duty after the Count’s vintage Duchess of Cambridge had been drained and replaced with soy blood, and had heard the most mysterious gurgling sound coming from one of the rooms further down the corridor…

   Wolfie had been puzzling by the sound. He drew slowly down the corridor towards it, trying to keep his footsteps silent. For a few moments, there was an empty silence, but then it started up again. A rattling sound, as if something metallic was being dragged roughly across the floor, followed by a terrible retching. He drew level with the frame of the door, chewing his lip. He had been entrusted to guard these corridors, he told himself, he had to face up to this - whatever it was, that was wallowing in the cellar.

   Wolfie needn’t have worried. The occupant of the room was far too busy with her own agenda to pay any attention to the sound of flat-soled footfalls on the cold, stony floor. He needn’t have worried about having to report the incident either, nor trying to pitch the attendant out single-handedly, for the sight that met his eyes as he peeked around the side of the door was quite unfortunate indeed.

   Out of the two bare bulbs that were suspended from the ceiling, only one was lit, throwing a gloomy grey light over the room. The other was cracked and broken, the remains of the glass scattered in jagged pieces around the floor. In the middle sat Ingrid. She had never looked worse in all honesty. Her usually inert figure was bent double over a crass metal bowl front on her, and her dress was stained with the dirt of the cellar floor. She seemed pained, almost ill, far paler than her usual self. Her shoulders were trembling in the chill of the room.

   Wolfie realised quickly enough where the grotesque noises were coming from. The comprehension turned his stomach, making him feel slightly nauseous, but Ingrid – oblivious – gagged and retched over the bowl again. As she crouched – one of her hands grasping at her thick black hair, the other gripping at her chest– she choked, and flecks of blood splattered from between her lips onto the wall and floor in front of her.

   There was no mystery as to where the original bottles of vintage blood had gotten to. Ingrid had switched them; she must have done. And now she was sick.

   There was another particularly loud gagging from Ingrid. The sound rattled in her throat – the same oddly metallic, gurgling sound that Wolfie had heard from the corridor. He could only watch with suppressed repulsion as her whole body suddenly heaved forward, as with surprising force a surge of blood came gushing out of her mouth. Wolfie watched it unfurling from her lips like some hideous, scarlet flower spreading its leaves. The sight almost made his own lunch come spewing back out. Ingrid’s fingers clawed into her mouth, forcing them into her throat; she seemed only more encouraged, pouring deeper over the bowl, trying to force up more of the acidic bile. It was on her hand, running down her chin as if her mouth were bleeding, and the remainder of the first initial rush still dripped from her lips.

   It was a vomit of blood, her father’s collection of prized vintage blood…

   Wolfie realised that he was gripping the side of the doorframe rather hard. There was a lump that had formed in his throat, which he swallowed down as if _that_ were vomit, too. The scene was horrific, disgusting, but he couldn’t take his eyes from it.

   Ingrid had barely sat up, her bottom lip jutting out and nostrils flaring as she breathed deeply, when the sickness took hold of her again. So wretched was her stomach now, with the previous assault, that it didn’t need assistance to force even more up. She had just enough time to twist violently to the side before more awful red fluid poured from her mouth, missing the bowl, splattering wetly onto the floor instead. Rivers of regurgitated blood ran where the stone flags dipped as they joined together.

   Wolfie had never seen this before, or in fact anything like it. His mother had never gorged herself silly on the prized blood of noble ancestors, and why Ingrid would do such a thing was a mystery to him. In the morning, her throat would be ragged and raw, and she might have bruises on her knuckles soon from where they had pressed too hard against her teeth.

   Out of all the things that he’d seen in his lifetime, Wolfie would never forget this incident.

   He watched Ingrid’s slumped figure as she leaned heavily against the wall, her chest rasping and rattling as she breathed. The blood that she had vomited pooled around her; it had spilled over the side of the metal bowl, too, and was making its steady path across the floor. It was Ingrid’s hands, on her face, and now on her skirts and chest as well. And glistening as if with tears, her eyes were fixed unseeingly on one single space in the far corner of the room.

   Of course, Ingrid never cried. Wolfie wasn’t entirely sure that she knew _how_ to cry.

   After that the boy had hastily made his retreat. The sight and smell of vomit and blood was twisting his stomach, and he was unsure of how much more he could take. He hadn’t returned to the basement again that evening… Later, when he saw Ingrid, she looked every bit her normal self.

   How, Wolfie had thought, can people be so nonchalant, after something so severe has happened?


	4. Bloody Mary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I like this one? Eh, so so. But I know that I wrote it for Halloween 2011 specifically.

   The time he had made a den out of old blankets and the breakfast table, and taken a number of cushions into the dining room in order to sit under it. For once, the boy had not been trying to spy on anyone. He had been reading, as best he could, a Transylvania book about werewolves that he had found in the Dracula library, and was only vaguely aware that there were other people in the room before something in particular caught his attention.

   “Do you believe in urban legends, Vlad?”

   Wolfie’s ears had pricked up. The question interested him strangely, so much so that he stopped mid-way through turning a page of the book (not that it mattered particularly anyway – he couldn’t read a word of it, but there were diagrams and pictures which amused him well enough).

   “Why?”

   “I don’t know…” It was Erin. She sounded thoughtful, as if she were pondering over whether to tell Vlad something vaguely important. “They’ve just always interested me, I guess.”

   There was a brief pause. Wolfie closed his book quietly, setting it aside before crawling to the edge of table and lifting up one of the blankets.

   The pair were sitting on either side of the fireplace at the far side of the room. Erin had her legs crossed, her hands folded loosely in her lap, whilst Vlad sat with his legs propped up and was leaning against the surround of hearth, a book in his hand. Wolfie could read the title: _To Kill A Mockingbird,_ but he’d never heard of it… Perhaps it was a vampire book.

   “Has your father never told you any?” asked Erin.

   Urban legends, oh right.

   Vlad flashed her a quick smile. “None that didn’t involve peasants being slain,” he said, returning his attention to his book.

   Erin still stared at him, as if quietly expectant. Slowly, she said, “Mine did. All the time. Especially in the winter when it was darker, or at Halloween…”

   Vlad’s eyes had lifted from the pages again. Turning his head, the look that he fixed her with was mildly curious.

   “They scared us so much,” Erin continued with a shy smile. “I could never get to sleep after them. Ryan used to – well, nevermind… I can’t believe you’ve never been told of any!”

   “There was one,” Vlad said, frowning slightly. He grip had slackened on the book, and now quite enthralled in the conversation he snapped it shut, pushing it aside and then swiveling to face Erin properly. “When Ingrid and I were younger,” he said, “we used to have a nanny. That was when Mum still lived with us, when we were in Transylvania. Dad used to go out hunting, and then Mum never really wanted to babysit us… We weren’t _her responsibility_ , she said. So we were watched by a nanny instead.”

   Erin raised a fine eyebrow.

   Vlad merely shrugged in response. “Aglaia wasn’t _that_ bad… She had a cruel sense of humour, though.” He trailed off thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as if he were trying to remember.

   Wolfie was sure that Erin’s reaction wasn’t questioning the nanny so much as Magda for being considerably less than a caring mother. It sounded like her, he thought, remembering how she had simply left him stranded with the Count and Vlad and Ingrid after her brief visit. Although he enjoyed it here — and that, he couldn’t deny — just sometimes he missed the sound of his mother’s heeled shoes clacking upon the wooden floors. Even the other day, he had been overcome with excitement and glee as he heard that all too familiar sound. When he had burst through the door to discover that it was no less than Miss McCauley, he had slumped disappointedly back to his room.

   Erin was waiting patiently, and Vlad went on.

   “I think…” he began again, wavering unsurely, and Wolfie flopped down onto his stomach to listen more comfortably. “I think it was something to do with a woman called Mary Worth.”

   Wolfie blanched; it was a name that he had hoped never to hear again.

   Erin, conversely, gasped in recognition and clasping her hands together in front of her excitedly exclaimed, “Bloody Mary!”

   “Don’t hold me to it – ”

   “No, no, you’re right!” The girl was nodding enthusiastically. “There were so many different versions, though. We were told that it was the ghost of the Queen Mary I, because she was nicknamed that, and she’d been driven mad before her death.”

   Vlad shook his head uncertainly, contradicting her. “Aglaia said it was a young woman who had been accused of killing her children.”

   “There are lots of _different_ legends about it.”

   Wolfie had heard stories about the so-called Bloody Mary as well. His mother had told him one last Halloween, much to the amusement of his father, who laughed and laughed at the boy’s terrified face as he was then sent up to bed. Magda’s version had been that Bloody Mary was a slayer, who had been foolish enough to go hunting one particular vampire on his sixteenth birthday, just as he‘d finished his transformation; it was unlucky, Magda had said with delighted relish, that poor Mary had found him still in the same room as the Blood Mirror. They pair had fought, Mary’s face being terribly scarred in the process, and then she had been pushed backwards through the Mirror where she had remained, trapped, bound by her mortality. From then on, if any vampire recited her name three times whilst looking into any mirror in a darkened room, she would appear to them in the empty space where their reflection would be, but for that they were immortal, and drag them into the Mirror with her. Never to be seen again. Wolfie hadn’t liked that bedtime story very much.

   A silence had passed between the pair again. They both stared back at each other with quiet wonder – well, Erin did. Vlad still looked puzzled, as if still trying to grasp at a memory that had been lost to him somewhere along the way. Erin momentarily dropped her gaze to the floor, pushing some of the ash from the fire around in circles with the tip of her finger. When she looked up again, there was an inquisitive glimmer in her eye.

   “What did you have to say?” she asked. “To summon her, I mean.”

   Vlad shrugged casually. “ _I believe in Mary Worth,_ ” he said, his tone nonchalant. It was like he wasn’t worried about it at all. Wolfie, on the other hand, couldn’t stop himself from casting a quick look around the room for any sign of mirrors.

   “We told her that we’d killed her baby…”

   Vlad frowned, and Erin had to continue.

   “Queen Mary never had any children,” she explained. “She couldn’t. Some historians say that’s what drove her mad, so it’s a taunt, you see… It was supposed to infuriate her into coming out of the mirror.”

   Wolfie still didn’t see why anyone would want to encourage a deceased potential lunatic, set with the intention of killing innocent civilians, out of a mirror at all. In fact, he didn’t see why anyone would want to encourage a deceased potential lunatic out of anywhere.

“Let’s try it, Vlad,” Erin said quietly.

   Oh, Wolfie though with a twinge of terror, so _she_ was a lunatic as well.

   Vlad grinned curiously at her. “What?”

   “Bloody Mary.”

   For a moment, the vampire simply stared. His grin slowly broke to display his teeth — something which, as he was in possession of fangs, Wolfie found quite alarming as opposed to a reflection of his enthusiasm — and holding out a hand, hauled Erin to her feet with him.

   “I know where,” he declared.

   Although terrified at the prospect, Wolfie decided that he couldn’t be left alone without knowing what was going on. Quickly, as the pair made for the door, he slithered back under the table to grab his stuffed toy dog, and then scrabbled after them.

*

   “Vlad,” said Erin, as she peered apprehensively in front of them, “I can’t help but think that this is a really bad idea…”

   They were shuffling together down one of the many darkened corridors and really, Wolfie thought, he could have told them that earlier if they were unsure. He trailed unnoticeably behind and Erin, despite her words, seemed almost bemused in a terrified sort of way as they tiptoed along. Vlad let out a hollow laugh, following close at her heels.

   “It was your idea,” he said slyly into her ear.

   Even in the dim light, Wolfie saw the smirk. Vlad threw his hands suddenly to the side of Erin’s waist, making an unidentifiable _caw_ sound as he did so. Erin jumped and let out a scream, and Vlad laughed again good-humouredly.

   “Watch out,” he teased. “Monster’s about.”

   “You idiot!” Erin grinned, and then she asked, “Where are we going?”

   “Just keep heading straight.”

   Wolfie had never been to this part of the Grange before. It was chilly, damp and gloomy, perhaps even more miserable than the basement – although, judging by the several flights of stairs that they had come down, they perhaps _were_ in the basement. Or below it, was that possible?

   He had to keep his eyes closely on the figures moving in front of him, clutching his stuffed animal to his chest. Vlad, taking hold of Erin’s arms to guide her, swerved suddenly to a stop in front of a large dark oak panel door that seemed to loom on the right hand side of the wall out of no where.

   “Where – ” Erin began to ask again.

   Vlad shushed her, his hand finding the doorknob in the dark and then closing on the key still in the lock below it. The catch creaked ominously, as if it hadn’t been opened for centuries.

   “Come on,” he said quietly, pushing the door open. Erin entered somewhat hesitantly before him.

   If possible, once inside it was even chillier. Wolfie skulked in the shadows like a hunted animal, making sure to keep out of the pool of light that was thrown from the dusty chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. An ornate mirror stood tall underneath it, and Erin was slowly advancing in awe. It was almost twice her size.

   She let out a small utterance. “Vlad, is this –”

   “It’s the Blood Mirror,” he confirmed.

   She turned to look at him, and Wolfie saw that her face was quite solemn, quite serious.

   “I have him under control now, Erin,” was the response to her unspoken worries. “I promise.”

   Wolfie needn’t ask who Vlad was talking about. Secretly, he wished that perhaps Erin would now disagree altogether, the fear that Vlad’s _evil side_ might take over again counteracting the enthusiasm to try out the ancient myth. Wolfie found himself surveying the scene with baited breath – however, no such look. Erin swallowed, nodding slowly.

   “I trust you,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

   Wolfie didn’t understand any of it. How she could be comforted by Vlad’s words whilst in the same room as the Blood Mirror and some several feet below ground level, he didn’t know. She might as well have brought her coffin down whilst she was at it, Wolfie thought with a shiver.

   Vlad had held out his hand. As he and Erin turned to stare into the mirror together, their hidden spectator followed their gaze.

   “I’m holding hands with a ghost,” Erin laughed quietly.

   It was true. In their reflection, Erin’s hand grasped the thin air – she stood side by side with no one. But Vlad, glancing at her in the flesh, gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. She seemed to understand. Without delaying any more time, and with the candles burning brightly above, they repeated the phrase trice in unison.

   “ _I believe in Mary Worth. I believe in Mary Worth. I believe in Mary Worth._ _”_

   For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Wolfie almost breathed a sigh in relief, but all too soon had he allowed himself to relax. He could feel a chill creeping up the back of his neck, grasping at every hair until it was stood on end and tiny goose-pimples had risen over his arms; then, suddenly, a dreaded chill seemed to fill the entire room. He hugged his stuffed dog closer to his chest, his short fingernails digging hard into the soft fur. This was it, he was sure. And as the candles on the chandelier – one, at first, then two and three, then a fourth – flickered and went out, as if hit by a cold breeze, and as Wolfie stared between Erin and Vlad into the mirror, he was sure he saw a cloaked figure materialize in the reflection.

   Courage failed him. With a whimper, in panic, he made to rush back to the door, slipping on the damp floor as he went and landing with a thud. Erin span at the sound and rest of the candles went out, all too suddenly.

“ _Vlad!_ – ”

   Wolfie barely had time to register the note of hysteria in her voice as she called out to the vampire. He had never scrabbled faster on his hands and knees as when he lunged for the door and broke out into the corridor. Whatever had appeared in the room, whatever his half-brother and his far-too-familiar friend had summoned, and whatever had caused the candles to blow out, Wolfie was sure he didn’t want to stay to discover. He had ran as fast as his little legs would carry him all the way back to the dining room.

*

   Later, when he heard the door open again and the sound of Erin and Vlad’s voices, Wolfie stuck his head out from underneath the blankets for a second time. Once back in the warmth and the light of the upstairs rooms, he found himself suitably more calm, and had spent only a _few_ minutes rocking back and fourth, clutching his toy dog and shaking.

   Erin was flushed pink as if embarrassed and Vlad, following in her wake, had laughed himself into a stitch.

   “You were terrified!” he wheezed.

   He almost collided with the doorframe instead of trying to close it, and Erin gave him an incredulous look, her cheeks lifting with a sheepish grin.

   “Stop it,” she said, although her tone lacked authority. “Stop it now.”

   Vlad only laughed more.

   Wolfie watched the pair in amazement. They seemed to unphased by the entire thing now, and yet _he_ had sat shivering and whimpering under the table.

   Erin shook her head, smiling to herself. “I suppose I should be grateful that you aren’t impersonating me.”

That sobered Vlad considerably. He stopped, mid-laugh, his face becoming very serious as he looked back at her from the doorway and said solemnly, “Do you want me to?”

   “No!”

   She laughed, crossing the room again the push past him or punch him in the arm, Wolfie wasn‘t sure of which. Instead of the expected assault, she was refrained; Vlad grabbed her wrist, and pulled her in to him. Wolfie frowned at the next occurrence, pulling a face and ducking back underneath the table.

   Kissing was for girls, he decided. If _that_ was the sort of behaviour that Bloody Mary brought out in people, he had even more reason not to try it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Mistletoe & Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas 2011, because I'm a sucker for holidays too and this is my favourite couple.

   The time that he had been wandering aimlessly around the empty corridors of the Grange, on the evening of the last day of term before the Christmas holidays, and staring up at the tinsel that still decked the walls and the lights that were strung from the ceiling. Wolfie had turned off from the corridor and skipped down the flight of stairs, and he could hear voices growing louder as he neared the entrance hall.

   “I think it went very well, actually, for a first attempt!”

   It was Alex McCauley’s voice, Wolfie could tell. He slowed his steps, moving closer to the wall as he inched forwards instead. As the hallway came into view, gathered around the extravagantly decorated Christmas tree were indeed the Grange’s Head Teacher and no less than Count Dracula, donning his long black cloak as usual and appearing distinctively un-festive, even against the backdrop of gold, red and silver. Miss McCauley was bent at the knees as she spoke, gathering up scattered pieces of bust Christmas crackers from the floor.

   “Splendidly well,” the Count agreed. It was clear to see, however, that he was not completely focused on the subject at hand. His eyes were moving intently instead over the Head Teacher, watching her every move as she scrambled around on the floor.

   “We’ve never really attempted the whole Christmas thing before,” she admitted, and the smile that she gave to the Count was somewhat bemused. “We never thought it would work out…” She stretched, clambering back to her feet with the broken crackers in her hand and sighing as she glanced around. “This is going to take some cleaning, though.”

   Wolfie saw her point. All around the hallway, running down several of the corridors and off into classrooms, half way up the stairs and into the dining hall, too, were the remnants of the school’s end-of-term celebrations. Wolfie had heard them from his room and perhaps, for the first time, had wished that he could join in like everyone else. Simply, it sounded so fun, and his mother had never really been in the spirit of celebrating Christmas. She just enjoyed the presents and attention that she received… This year, though, there was certainly a sense of festivity in the air. Garside Grange had decided to dedicate their last day before the holidays to spreading the Christmas joy, and it had been considered by all to be a complete success.

   In lessons, CDs filled with Christmas music had been put on loop, so that Wolfie had heard _Mistletoe & Wine_ reverberating through the walls at least twenty times throughout the day. In the morning up until lunch, Christmas films had been played in the assembly hall so that, like a cinema, students could come and go as they pleased. The younger years had insisted upon making Christmas cards. Now, glitter and sequins were scattered around the art classrooms and had treaded on the bottom of shoes throughout the entire school. The caretaker didn’t seem best pleased, but everyone else seemed to think it brilliant fun. The older students had handed out presents and some had headed outside to start snow wars; a select few had even raided the Food Technology department and had whipped up a large batch of festive cupcakes, which they sold to raise money for selected charities.

   The teachers had taken to letting their hair down, as well, many donning creative and festive outfits – however, one in particular, a young female member of staff, had politely been told to _wrap up a little warmer_ for the sake of her modesty. The boys of the Grange had been overjoyed that she had left so little to their imagination.

   For lunch there had been turkey and stuffing, salted gammon ham and honey roast chicken, potatoes in their every form with gravy and mountains of steamed vegetables. This had been when the majority of crackers had been pulled, the students shrieking in delight as their contents flew across the room. Dessert, following, had provided mince pies, German Stollen cake with marzipan, mini Christmas puddings, chocolate logs, trifle. There was even mulled wine for the teachers, which the Count too had seen fit to indulge in – that’s to say, after adding a little of his own private blood stash to the mixture. He had arrived back in their quarters with a slight spring in his step, a subtle grin spread over his face which was so uncharacteristic for this time of year, apparently, that Vlad had felt the need to do a double-take. Wolfie had watched him go by with faint curiosity.

   In the afternoon there had been games – silly, childish games in the assembly hall which everyone loved but never dared to admit. There had been prizes, too, like tins of Celebrations chocolates for teams of students and selection boxes and bouquets of mini candy canes. Teachers took it in turns to waddle awkwardly across the room with a balloon stuck between their legs, trying not to pop it, and Miss McCauley had taken part in the school’s marshmallow-eating competition.

   All in all, it had been the most fantastic of days and the students had all left feeling, in Miss McCauley’s words, ‘relaxed and ready for Christmas’.

   Now, the only problem was of clearing up the mess…

   “I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” the Count said, bringing Wolfie back from his reminiscing. His hands, previously folded neatly in front of him, gestured with open palms as stepping forward he opened his arms, motioning around the hallway. “All this, it can wait.”

   The Head Teacher gave him a disbelieving look.

   “It _is_ Christmas, afterall,” the Count implored. “Surely you’d rather be spending this time with your family?”

   Miss McCauley, as Wolfie then understood, was a sucker for the Count’s charm. As he stood, arms still wide and with a look set on his face that suggested an unwavering persistence, the corners of Miss McCauley’s mouth lifted upwards again for the space of a second before breaking wholly into a grin.

   “I only have my parents,” she told the Count with amusement.

   They were now standing only a few feet apart. Wolfie could not pretend to ignore the presence of mistletoe, hanging almost innocently from one of the beams above their heads between them. All the same, he wasn’t sure whether the Count was up to something or not – certainly, _Vlad_ suspected his father all the time, constantly warning him against biting any of the teachers but most especially, Miss McCauley. For a moment, Wolfie even considered running to fetch the young vampire.

   The Count was sympathetic. “And I only have my Vladdy,” he said, before a look of apparent conflict crossed over his face. “And Ingrid,” he resolved quietly. “Oh, and Wolfie… Maybe I‘ll have to find him some sort of… present…”

   Wolfie’s eyes lit up and he grinned to himself, suddenly excited. A present!

   Miss McCauley slowly shook her head. The smile carved up into her cheeks now. “I told you,” she said. “Underneath it all, you _are_ just a big softie.”

   The Count scoffed. For a second, the pair stared at each other in contemplation. Wolfie thought, with a grimace, that he may have to cover his eyes and turn away, because over the past week he had seen quite enough kissing from Erin and Vlad, and now the Count had leant forwards slightly as if with a purpose. It appeared as though Miss McCauley was going to co-operate too, for she made an indefinite movement towards him, before quickly reconsidering and turning away again.

   “Perhaps you’ll join me in a drink over this holiday,” she suggested as she moved away into the centre of the hallway. Although the Count couldn’t see it, Wolfie could – she was wriggling her hands nervously in front of her, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.

   The Count straightened up. “I believe I can fit that into my arrangements…” he said.

   Wolfie inched closer along the wall. Before he had even realised, let had time to stop it, his hand had nudged the side of a brightly coloured bauble that was hanging precariously from one of the photographs above him, and tumbled dramatically to the ground. He jumped back in surprise as it clattered noisily down the stairs.

   Two sets of eyes turned on him immediately.

   “Sorry,” he mumbled automatically, although altogether unsure of whether he was apologising for watching them or for smashing the bauble. It now lay in a thousand tiny pieces just several shuffles away from the Count’s feet.

   Truthfully, the boy didn’t know what would now happen. If it had been his mother, well – the reason he was living at Garside Grange now was a direct consequence of being discovered last time. He didn’t much fancy anything like that happening again. Maybe he would just be shouted at, perhaps in the way that the Count shouted at Ingrid. But he, unlike Ingrid, wouldn’t have the courage to argue back.

   “Wolfie…” the Count began uncertainly. On the contrary, it seemed that he had no idea of what to say. He opened and closed his mouth for a moment, and then said, “Isn’t it your bedtime?”

   That was something the boy hadn’t heard before. Not from a vampire.

   Miss McCauley had a subtle pink tinge to her cheeks. “Perhaps I should let you go…” she said.

   The Count gave her an unreadable glance. Wolfie couldn’t be sure of what it was exactly but he seemed almost exasperated, as if he had lost his battle. All the same, he swept forward and up the few stairs towards Wolfie, wrapping an arm carefully around his shoulder as he turned to look back down.

   “You’ll remember what I said?”

   Miss McCauley assured him with a smile. “I’m grabbing my coat already!”

   Evidentially pleased, the Count returned her smile – something which, Wolfie was surprised, was becoming easier and easier for him to achieve. As the Count steered him away and began to ascend the flight of stairs, Wolfie couldn’t help but realise that there was something all too familiar in the way they acted. Something very… Vlad-and-Erin-ish.

   “Oh, and the offer you made…” the Count said suddenly, and Miss McCauley jerked her head up before they disappeared from view. “I’d be very happy to take you up on.”


End file.
